


Thou Art To Me a Delicious Torment

by Minxie



Series: Power Exchange [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: KINK: D/s, M/M, QAF (US), S1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-05
Updated: 2009-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"His name is Justin. And he's…" A plethora of words crowd my mind: perfect, ready for the taking, all blue eyes and adoration, the bane of my existence. "He's my fucking kryptonite."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Thou Art To Me a Delicious Torment

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to leela_cat for the beta read!

"Been a while."

Understatement of the century. Tipping back my beer, I shrug. "You could say that."

That gets a chuckle, a familiar heavy rumble that still raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

The sound of flesh against flesh blends in with the low throbbing base. Balancing the two, focusing on both and neither at the same time—a skill acquired through time and experience—is just as familiar to me as the man invading my space.

"Thought you gave up on the leather scene."

I grunt in acknowledgement. Because, yeah, I pretty much had.

"And yet, here you are."

I set the empty bottle on the bar and slide it away. "Here I am."

"You actually gonna talk to me, Kinney, or you planning to keep playing the strong silent type?"

I finally turn my head and look at the man standing next to me, Anthony Jacobs. Police officer by day, BDSM Master by night. And day, if you happen to be his boy.

He's my mentor, the man who guided me when my experimenting became more than an every now and then thing. He's also the first—and last—person I've hit my knees for willingly, taking to heart his statement that to be able to truly dominate, first you had to honestly submit.

"Talk about what, Tony?"

His turn to shrug. "Whatever the hell dragged you back here."

Like I'm gonna give it up that easy. He should know better. He _does_ know better. I signal the bartender and another beer, along with a shot of JB, appears in front of me. I arch a brow, draining the JB in one pull, and drawl, "Maybe I just missed you."

"Understandable."

I snort and shake my head. Conceited fucker. At least the tension between us is gone. "Anyone ever tell you you're an ass?"

"You did. Every day for the first month."

Then he grips the back of my neck and squeezes. Once. And I'm right back there: two years ago, on my knees, splayed open, and trusting this man with _everything_. Fuck.

"Come on, boy. Time to break down these walls."

I shudder and, pushing away from the bar, follow him out of the club.

* * *

  
Tony's home hasn't changed one whit. That's comforting on a deeper level than most would understand. With that comfort, I fall back into the habits demanded during my training: shoes beneath the table, jacket in the closet, keys in the bowl.

As I fall into the old routine, the layers I use to maintain the Brian-fucking-Kinney image start to peel away until I'm down to my tank and denims, standing in the middle of the room, barefoot and relaxed. Teetering on the cusp of trusting this man again.

"How much, Brian?"

Leave it to Tony to jump right the fuck in.

"How much do I need? Or how much do I want?" Wants and needs, two totally different things. I've never been good at separating the two.

"Let's start with what you want."

And suddenly he's standing behind me, a hand on my shoulder quietly offering the support he knows I won't ask for.

"I want to not want this."

His hand tightens minutely. "And you need?"

Justin.

That's the first answer to pop into my head. Fortunately my brain overrides my mouth and I manage to keep it quiet. For now.

"Obviously more than I thought I did."

I see the shadow of his nod, feel his breath ghost closer to my neck, and something inside uncoils. For the first time since telling Justin I don't do love, that I only fuck, I feel at ease.

"You remember where I keep everything?"

"Yeah."

His hand drops off my shoulder. "Go shower, Brian. I'll be in the kitchen when you're done."

* * *

  
There's coffee and food waiting when, freshly showered and in a pair of Tony's sweats, I pad barefoot and shirtless into the kitchen. One look at his face and I know better than to ignore the fruit salad and turkey sandwich on the counter. Bossy fucker.

"You're intent on ruining a perfectly good buzz, Tony."

He points to the food as he passes me a mug of coffee. "I'm intent on you being totally sober before we talk."

"I'm nowhere near drunk."

He grins at me then. "I know or I would have sent your ass to bed instead of the shower. Now eat, or I'll reconsider."

I pick at the food quietly, taking bites here and there but mostly just moving the fruit around my plate. The more my buzz fades, the more anxious I become. What the fuck was I thinking?

"Stop stalling, Brian."

I jerk my head up and look at him. Fuck knows he'd see through my attempts to put off the upcoming discussion. And there _will_ be a discussion. Because I know we are long past the point where I can walk away without him nagging the everloving shit out of me.

"Here or…" He cants his head towards the hall, towards his playroom.

I push the plate away and stand. "There."

Concern flashes in his eyes before he shuts it down, becomes the person I need him to be. We both know the minute we cross the threshold the balance of power will shift, that I'll willingly turn it over to him. "To talk?"

I nod sharply. "Safe room. Just to talk."

"Go on then. I'll be right behind you."

Of that there is no doubt. He's been there to catch me a hundred times before, looks like he'll be doing it at least a few more.

* * *

  
"His name is Justin. And he's…" A plethora of words crowd my mind: perfect, ready for the taking, all blue eyes and adoration, the bane of my existence. "He's my fucking kryptonite."

Sitting here in the dark glow of purple lights, my back pressed against Tony's chest, his arms and legs locked around me, cocooning me, it's almost easy, definitely easier, to say these things. Has always been easier.

It is here, tucked away in the safe room, that I learned the difference between abuse and erotic play. Here, with this man is where I figured out that this, this exchange in power and control isn't about the sex or the pain, that it has nothing to do with the way I was raised. But that it's about trust and commitment and respect.

All things Justin is trying to be, to build, to _have_ with me. If I'll only let him.

"Little blond, eyes that look straight into your soul?"

His question brings me back to the present. "Met him, huh?"

I feel him shrug, the rise and fall of his chest as he rolls his shoulders.

"Went looking for him when I heard about you chasing a piece of ass all the way to New York."

"Wasn't chasing him. Little brat had my credit card."

Tony bites my shoulder. Nothing hard, just enough to wet my skin and get my attention. "You remember the rules, Brian. Nothing but the truth in here. No lies. No obscuring." He presses his lips to my shoulder and whispers, "No matter how long it takes."

I snap my jaw shut. Yeah, I remember the rules. And the fact that Tony has the patience of a fucking saint and can outwait even my stubborn streak.

"You need to safe out? End it here for now?"

I shake my head. If I leave now, I won't come back. No way in hell. No matter how much Tony bitches at me.

"I followed him to New York with prodding from others. It wasn't my idea."

He hums softly. "But…"

"But I would have ended up there anyway." And the door is now open.

"Why? Because he had your credit card?"

Tony knows the answer already; I can hear it in his voice. But damned if he isn't going to make me say it anyway.

I shake my head. Definitely not because of the credit card. "Because he's mine."

Tony huffs a chuckle against my skin. "I know, Brian. Just was wondering if you did."

* * *

  
By the time I'm done, when I finally have that fucking blond twink talked out of my system, I notice that Tony has tightened his arms and legs, that the bondage he has me in is absolute. Holding me, supporting me, forcing me to face this head on.

It's familiar and safe and something I haven't given myself for years.

I shudder and the last of the tension, that final piece I always hold on to, bleeds out.

"Why'd you leave the scene?"

Should have known we'd get here eventually. "I wasn't in the right place for it. Too much responsibility. Hell, Tony, I could barely take care of myself. What the fuck was I supposed to do with a sub?"

"No one ever said it had to be a twenty-four, seven thing, Brian."

I can't help arching a brow at that even though I know he can't see it. "You do know me, right?"

Tony outright laughs. "Got a point there, Kinney. You never did know the meaning of moderation."

I huff, trying to sound affronted but failing miserably.

"And now? Are you ready to grow-up? Ready to forgo the image you've built?"

That _is_ the question of the hour, now isn't it?

"I don't know." And I really don't. I've spent years becoming the uncaring, unfeeling stud of Liberty Avenue. Locking away all sorts of desires and feelings and just fucking my way through life. "All I know for sure is that Justin is mine."

"Then you better figure it out before someone else finds that boy."

That makes me frown. "What?"

"He's open for it. One meeting in the diner and I could see it." Tony slowly releases his hold on me, first his legs and then his arms until I'm simply lounging against him, nothing holding me there except my force of will. "Right now, his world is you. But it won't stay that way forever, Brian. Not unless you step up and take the reins."

"I still don't know the meaning of moderation." Never will where this is concerned.

Tony chuckles softly. "Oddly enough, I don't think your Justin does either."

* * *

  
"Better now?" Tony hands me a mug of coffee and leans back against the counter, waiting.

I stop and think about it. Am I better now? I still have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, but the desolate feeling isn't as strong. "I guess. Pretty much talked the fuck out for at least a year."

Tony sips at his coffee, watching me intently. He looks away and then back to me.

"Spit it out, Tony."

His lips twitch and I realize I walked into a trap.

"Thought you were talked out, Kinney."

I grumble under my breath—_asshole_—and motion for him to continue.

"What if this isn't Justin's thing?"

Christ. Hadn't even thought about that.

"Don't know." I shrug, try for easy nonchalance. If Tony's sympathetic look is anything to go by, I missed the mark completely.

He sets his mug in the sink, holds his hand out for mine. "I know you think you're talked out, Brian, but…"

"The fucking talking has just begun."

Doesn't mean I have to be happy about it.

* * *

  
By the time I reach the loft, I have a plan. One that doesn't involve the prescribed talking. At least not yet. There're things I can do to test the waters, saving the fucking chit-chat until I'm sure this won't come back to bite me in the ass.

I'll start off slow. Choosing his outfits, asking for his schedule, setting specific tasks aside as his. Subtle, under the radar shit that I can brush off as something else—my age, my anal tendencies, his fucked up wardrobe—if Justin balks at the changes. And we'll keep the living arrangements the same: him with Debbie, me in my loft.

Safety nets all around.

* * *

  
"Brian?"

His voice reflects the confusion showing on his face.

It's been a month since I sought Tony out and I'm just now getting around to having _the_ conversation with Justin. Which is ridiculous seeing as he took to the subtle changes like a fucking duck to water. By the second week he was leaving his schedule without any prodding at all, doing the chores I'd delegated to him before I noticed they needed to be done.

Yet this is the first time he's been confused.

There are times the boy fucking worries me. Or rather, he makes me wonder about myself. A controlling, demanding Brian he takes in stride, doesn't even blink. But one who sets a table for dinner makes him balk three feet into the loft. Fuck.

"Come over here and sit down."

The gruff tone seems to settle his nerves some and, shy smile in place, he inches closer to the table.

"Plans?"

I roll my eyes. "Unless you're canceling, yes."

His eyes widen, and I realize he really didn't think the table was set for him. That certainly adds another dimension to what I have planned.

"Really?"

"Look, sit down, Justin. We need to—" good fucking _Christ_, I can't believe what I'm about to say "—talk."

He slides into the seat, all of the manners Mother Taylor taught him appearing without a second thought. Napkin goes across his lap, elbows nowhere near the table, polite smile pasted in place.

I'd laugh if I thought that it wouldn't freak him out even more.

Instead I start dishing out the food, serving Justin first and then myself. As I set the plate in front of him, a light sparks in his eyes and I know he's finally figured something out. I can only hope he's at least headed in the right direction.

"Does this…" Justin stops and swallows; then, looking up, starts again. "All the stuff this past month—the checking in, the rules—it has something to do with this. Right?"

Such a smart boy. "It does."

I pick up my fork and motion for him to start eating. Let him ponder for a bit longer. See just how close he can get.

Watching him work through a problem is enlightening. Everything flashes over his face. Possibilities, discarded theories, even a touch of hope.

The hope lingers longer than the others. Fascinating.

"Brian…"

"Not yet, Justin." I take a small bite of salad. "How'd your shift at the diner go?"

It's a test. I'll admit that. It's the first time I've shut him down intentionally, making him wait without even giving him the benefit of finishing his thought.

"Uh, fine."

He's thrown but trying.

"Not too many people grabbing my ass tonight."

I growl, and he grins. Twat.

"How was your day?"

"I was a little preoccupied, planning a dinner for a cute little blond." I duck my head and look at him through my lashes. "Seen anybody who fits that description?"

He arches a brow. Fucking little thief. Steals credit cards and signature looks.

I shake my head, lips twitching minutely. "You finished, or does my growing boy need more?"

He pushes his plate away. "So?"

Standing up, I grab the plates and retreat to the kitchen, canting my head towards the living room. "Head to the sofa, I'll be there in a minute."

* * *

  
Dropping down on the sofa, I drag my hand through my hair and look at Justin. "Tell me what you've pieced together."

The more he's figured out on his own, the easier this fucking talk will be.

Justin blushes a delicious shade of red but he doesn't shy away from the question. His strength, his personal drive is one of the many things that keeps me circling around him, keeps me letting him in.

"Not much, really." He darts a quick look in my direction and then goes back to focusing on his jeans. "Um, with all the other stuff, it's more than a sex thing."

Definitely.

"Control. Yours over me." He looks at me again, this time holding steady, focusing on my eyes. "But only as far as I'm willing to give it. Right?"

"Good boy."

And suddenly I remember saying that to him before. _Good boy._ I should have known then, should have realized with that slip of the tongue that this one was already so much more than a trick.

"You said that the first night. When I told Michael…"

"You were coming with me."

"It didn't sound…" Justin stops and shakes his head. "I mean, tonight, when you just said it…"

"Context, Justin." I lick my lips and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "You didn't have the experience. Hell, you still don't have that kind of experience. But even then, for me…"

He reaches out, rests a hand on my thigh. "Explain it to me, Brian."

I stand up and retrieve a bag from my desk. The books inside are new, purchased more than two weeks ago just for Justin.

My copies of similar titles, worn and marked, are still hidden away in a box, along with things like my training collar and the paddle, _my_ paddle, the one Tony used to discipline me. All the things I thought I'd put away forever.

I hand him the bag, stopping him when he tries to open it immediately.

"Listen to me, Justin." I rub the back of my neck, forming the words in my head before saying them. This is going to be the most open, the most honest I've been with anyone outside of Tony in long time. "Those books are not a rule book. Don't think that everything you read about is…"

Jesus, fuck, this is hard. But completely necessary. Communication and trust are key to any relationship, but are the cornerstones to what I'm suggesting to Justin.

Finally, sighing, I blurt, "It's just information, okay?"

He's looking at me, staring at me, completely serious, questions already forming in his blue eyes. Again I wonder what the fuck I was thinking, starting this again. Starting it with Justin.

The answer comes just as quickly as the question. There is no way to _not_ do this with him. Not unless he flat out turns me down.

"What we decide on, if we decide on anything, is between us." I look away, only for a moment, just long enough to pull the next statement out. "You need to read them. Ask yourself questions, ask me questions. And then—" I sigh again and lean my head back, frustrated with myself "—then we'll see what we're gonna do."

"Brian…"

"This isn't something to play at, Justin. Not for me." I twine the fingers of my hands together, clasping them in front of me in an effort to keep from touching him. "You have to be sure for yourself. So for the next two weeks you have complete freedom."

"Huh?"

"No schedules, no rules."

He's frowning, brows furrowed together. I don't know if he's pissed or confused. Neither is unexpected.

"I can't see you for two weeks?"

"If that's what you need." And, fuck, I hope that isn't what he needs. "Otherwise, we'll still see each other. Dance, fuck, eat. And talk, definitely talk. Just nothing else."

He sits back, presses in close to the couch, and nods. Acceptance, at least for now. Begrudging acceptance, if the tilt of his head is any indication. Up to now he's had to fight for everything from me, it's never been as obvious as it is right now. He'll accept my request, until he has to fight for my attention again. The boy is in for a surprise.

"Why?"

My brow quirks up. "Because your decision can't be influenced…"

"No, Brian." He shakes his head, a hand waving between us. "Why this? Just, why?"

Well, that's easy enough to answer.

"Because I don't know how not to. Not when it's more than a trick."

His smile tells me exactly how much I gave away with that statement. I can't help but wonder just when I lost complete control of the situation.

* * *

  
The little twat. That's all I can think when he comes into Babylon wearing a tight red shirt and black cargos. His text earlier today suddenly makes sense. One line: Red or blue?

I picked red.

Leaning against the bar, I wait for him, make him cross the dance floor, maneuver through the throng of bodies, never once breaking eye contact.

As soon as he reaches me, I grab his hand and lead him right back to the dance floor. "Thought I said complete freedom?"

He tries to shrug but the tight press of my body against his limits his movements, forces him to rock in concert to the rhythm I've established.

"Couldn't make up my mind."

I roll my eyes, masking the pleasure his actions give me. The decision has to be his, without the taint of my feelings. "And the copy of your schedule that mysteriously showed up on the fridge?"

He blushes, a slight tinge of pink that could easily be passed off as a flush from dancing.

"Habit, I guess."

I lean and lick the shell of his ear, and then whisper, "You do realize that ignoring what you're told would deserve a punishment, yes?"

A shudder races through him. "Like what?"

Christ. This kid is going to be the death of me.

"A true punishment?"

I feel him nod, his cheek rubbing against my shoulder as he silently answers my question.

This conversation really should happen somewhere else, somewhere quiet and private. But, somehow, it seems appropriate that it happen here, in the midst of chaos. Because, if we do this, if he decides to try this, it'll be out in the open. He'll be mine at the loft, on Babylon's dance floor, at the diner. The location won't change the fact, so we might as well start as we mean to go on.

He's got to know that there's nothing to hide because nothing we're doing is wrong.

"A true punishment would be tedious, boring, give you time for reflection." He's paying attention, I know from the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he's swaying but not really moving. "Corner time, essays and discussion, loss of something you were looking forward to. Like coming."

Justin pulls back far enough for me to see his face. Eyes clear but questioning, he asks, "So not spanking?"

"Make no mistake, if you're mine, I'll spank you. Decorate your ass in pink and red until it's hot and throbbing." His eyes glaze over and his breath shortens, morphs into tiny little pants and gasps. And I smirk. "But no way in hell will me tanning your ass ever be confused with a punishment. You'll enjoy it too much."

"Oh."

That ends the conversation, the questions. For tonight.

* * *

  
The take-out containers are empty, Justin's stomach is quiet, and the boy is stretched out on the sofa, his head in my lap. He wants to talk, has a few questions, and then, as he's said rather emphatically, he needs a fuck.

The last demand gets a grin. The boy is insatiable. Which works out well for me.

I run my fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp lightly while I wait for him to gather his thoughts. The waiting makes me itch, makes me wish for room to pace.

"This is new." Justin keeps his eyes on the bank of windows. "It makes me nervous. I don't know…"

"You don't know what, Justin?" I keep my voice even and my hand steady. The last thing he needs is to feel my tension.

Justin sighs and rolls completely over, burrowing his face in tight against my side. "I don't know anything."

The words are muffled vibrations against my skin.

"Justin, look at me."

Slowly he rolls onto his back, tilts his head until our eyes lock onto one another.

"You're not alone in this."

His brow wrinkles as he processes the words.

"You're nervous too?"

I shake my head. "Not nervous really. Just a little worried about how this conversation is going to go."

Justin's eyes widen with my admission. "Why would you be worried?"

Jesus. Justin's an open book, his eyes, his face showing everything: compassion, trust, innocence. Time to repay that with honesty. No matter how much it makes my stomach clench.

"I'm worried at how much I want this, you, us. That once you really understand, you're going to decide this is not what you want. And I'll be left with the loss."

He shakes his head, rolling it back and forth over my thigh. "It's not that I don't want it. But there's… stuff I don't get."

"Like?"

He pulls away from me, sits up and, breaking all contact, scoots to the opposite end of the couch. "Look, everything I've been reading, everything I can find, talks about trust and honesty and respect."

I nod, just to let him know that I really am listening, am hearing what he has to say.

Justin drags a hand through his hair and, looking away, sighs. "That screams commitment, Brian."

Fuck. Of all the goddamn things for him to want to talk about first.

I suck my bottom lip in, wondering just what the hell he is expecting me to say. "It does."

"And you're the one who told me you only believe in fucking."

Ouch. Score one for Justin.

"Yeah, and at the time, that's all you were. A fuck." I lean over and, pressing two fingers beneath his chin, tilt his head until I can see his eyes. "Or at least that's what I kept telling myself."

"And now?"

I tamp down the desire to say, 'Mine!' I don't think he's ready to hear that yet.

Instead, biting the inside of my cheek, I say, "Much more than a fuck."

* * *

  
"Is that kind of what bondage is like?"

I blink, take another drag from my cigarette, and shake my head. "That's what you want to talk about right after I fuck you through the mattress?"

Justin taps my chest, just a fleeting touch of his fingertips. "Brian. Is it?"

"Yes and no." I stub out the cigarette and roll to my side, steeling myself for yet another one of our talks. The boy has the worst timing of anyone I've ever known. First Babylon and now post-orgasm. "Do you like it when I hold your wrists, keep you from touching me?"

His lips curl into a smile and then he throws my words back at me. "Yes and no."

Brat.

"I'll never _like_ not being able to touch you." He runs his hand over my chest, nails grazing over lightly over my skin. "But it is hot."

I smirk, because, really, what else can I do. "Yeah, it is."

"It's not all about me though, is it?" He pulls his hand away, lays it flat against the mattress between us. "Why do you like holding my wrists in place?"

I don't answer him. Not verbally anyway. I grab both of his wrists, one in each hand, and roll, pinning him beneath me. His eyes go dark and glassy, and, as he pulls against my hold, his breathing shallows out. And, most telling of all, is the twitch of interest I feel from his dick.

I clasp my fingers tighter around his wrists and lean in, nibbling and sucking on his neck until a mark, a deep red-purple that stands out against his pale skin, blossoms and takes hold.

He's arching against me, his dick full and hard, and I pull away. Lean back far enough to look into his eyes.

"That's why I like holding you in place."

* * *

  
Three days and the mark I left is still visible. Today is the first day Justin hasn't kept it hidden beneath a collared shirt and a jacket. I can't decide if that's a good sign or not. I can't take my eyes off of it, off of him.

It's lighter, like a healing bruise, but very obviously a hickey, a love bite, a claim. My claim. And every time I look at him, a smug grin pulls at the edges of my mouth.

"My, my, my. Doesn't someone look extremely pleased with himself?"

I look away from Justin and wince.

"Christ, Em, could your shirt be more reflective?"

Emmett strikes a pose and grins. "We just got them in. I think Justin would look darling…"

He looks over to the counter, eyes flitting over Justin quickly and then zeroing in on Justin's neck.

"Oh, my." Then he looks at me, way too knowing for comfort. "Your handy work?"

Tongue in cheek, I shrug. Let Emmett draw his own conclusions.

Emmett shakes his head and laughs. "When are you going to admit that boy is way more than a trick?"

"About the same time you admit tangerine really isn't your color." Or Justin agrees to a contract, however temporary.

"If that's all it takes…"

He cackles when I glare at him and launch a napkin at his head.

* * *

  
We're high. Well, Justin's high. I'm just a bit buzzed. Either way, we're both feeling pretty mellow right now. Something that, for me, is probably a very good thing. Tomorrow is _the day_, the end of the two-week period. And, at least, the buzz keeps me from asking him too many questions.

He's spending the night tonight. At his request. Not that I'd turn away a night of fucking him, sleeping next to him.

"Hey, Brian?"

It sounds more than a little ominous.

"Yeah."

"What if I disappoint you?" He pinches the joint and pulls in another drag, not meeting my eyes again until he releases the stream of smoke. "I mean, what if I say 'yeah, I want this' but then there's something that I just can't do, something that you really, really want but…"

Beneath the glassy haze of the weed, I see an intense coherency in his eyes. The little shit used the drugs to ease us to this conversation. I don't know if he needs the laid back atmosphere or if he thinks I do.

"Only one way for you to disappoint me, Justin."

He arches a brow and waits.

"Not being honest, not using your safeword when you're uncomfortable or unsure."

"But what if I did, what if I say no but you…"

Insecurity. The word flashes in my brain and suddenly this all makes sense.

"Let's say you do disappoint me—" I nudge against his shoulder until he looks up, and our eyes meet "—it only means we have an area to work on."

"So you won't make me leave?"

This is fucking Craig Taylor's fault. Kicking Justin out, denying him as his son makes the boy question everyone's reaction to disappointment. There are days I'd love to do nothing more than beat the living shit out of that asshole.

I shake my head. "Disappointment doesn't mean rejection, Justin. Not here."

"But that list…"

Christ. Justin can take more left turns in a conversation than is feasibly possible. Especially when he's high.

"List?"

He nods and then, stumbling to his feet, retrieves a book from his backpack.

_Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns._ One of the books I gave him. And it's full of colorful little tabs, and, I'm sure, hand-written notes in the margins. Justin can be such a nerd at times.

I take the book from him and flip through until I find the negotiation questionnaire. "This list?"

Justin blushes bright red. "Brian, please."

"No, Justin. I want to go over the list." I pat the space beside me. "Come on. You're worried about disappointing me, right?"

He nods but stays quiet as he slides onto the couch next to me.

I start reading the list—"spanking, leather paddle, wooden paddle, belt"— pausing between each word and looking at Justin. "Which ones are you worried about?"

Justin shrugs.

I arch a brow. Staring contests are my forte, I will win this.

"I… I… Fuck, Brian! What the hell do I know about any of this?"

Score. The real issue finally comes out.

"And you think I'd what? Tie you down and strap your ass?" Jesus, just the thought of it and my cock is rock hard. But my cock isn't the point right now. "All without talking to you, talking it through first?"

He shakes his head, vehemently denying the accusation.

I grab his hands and tug, pulling Justin across my lap. I roll us both to the floor, positioning it so that I hit first, take the brunt of the landing. In seconds, I flip, sandwiching him between me and the polished hardwood.

"Tell me, Justin." I use one hand to hold his wrists, maneuver them until his arms are stretched above his head and his shirt is riding high, exposing the creamy white of his belly. "Is it that you think you won't like it? Won't like being bound at my mercy, open for me to play with as I want? Or—"

I lean in and lick his skin. Wet a path from his lips to his ear and then down over his neck, back to where I marked him last week. I bite and suck and raise the mark again, darker than before, while my free hand roams across his abdomen, sneaking under his shirt to tweak his nipples and then lower, worming my way beneath the waistband of his pants.

"Or is it you're afraid you'll like it too much?"

He arches against me, bows his back as much as I'll allow, and groans. "Brian, please."

"Please what, Justin?" My fingers brush the head of his cock, drag through the sticky pre-come wetting the tip. "Ask for what you want."

"Show me."

I pull back with a growl. His tacit acceptance gives room for everything that I've denied, and then tempered, held back because I didn't want to scare him, to surge to the front. "Strip and get on the bed, boy."

Let the show begin.

* * *

  
A plan forms as I follow him into the bedroom. A plan that includes nothing but me and Justin and the power of words. As much as I'd like him cuffed to the bed, tonight is not the night. Not when we're both somewhere between buzzed and high.

The toys will come out when we're both sober and well aware of where this is truly heading.

"Hands over your head, with your knees bent, feet flat, legs wide."

Justin reacts immediately, puts himself completely on display. His cock is full, hard and erect between his legs, and his stomach pulls taut as he stretches and wraps his fingers around the edge of the mattress.

Jesus. Fuck.

"Here are the rules. One: red is stop, yellow is slow down, green is keep going. I ask how you're doing, you fucking answer me or it's over. What's stop?"

Justin shudders and moans. "Red."

I strip, dropping my clothes in a heap at the foot of the bed. "Two: you move your hands, try to touch me, and it's over for tonight. Understand?"

He nods and then, when I arch a brow, says, "Yes."

Tossing condoms and lube on the bed, I add, "And, three: if it starts to be too much, you use your words. You don't, and then meltdown, this whole thing gets tabled. For a lot longer than tonight. Got it?"

When he agrees, I drop onto the foot of the bed, position myself between his bent legs.

Despite all outward appearances, Justin is nervous. I can see it in his eyes, nearly hidden behind the final stages of his drug-induced high. Now I know exactly why Justin cracked out the weed tonight. The twat had this planned, or at least something like this. He's always been a bold little shit.

I brush my lips over his knee. "Relax."

I press my lips against his knee, another kiss, firmer than the last. "Just breathe. In and," I release a breath, slowly blowing the air over his skin, "out. In and—"

"Out," he murmurs, closing his eyes and exhaling.

"Good boy."

Without opening his eyes, Justin's lips curve into a smile.

Christ. He's made for this.

Made for this _with me_.

"Wider, Justin." I nudge his thighs, spreading them wider until I can feel the strain of the position in his muscles. He wants an example, wants a taste of what we're talking about. He'll have that.

But it won't be easy.

"I want you to stay just like this. Hold it for as long as you can." I rub the inside of his thighs, briskly enough to warm the muscle and ease the initial tension. "If you need to move, tell me first."

As soon as he whispers okay, I dip my head, licking and sucking my way down from his knee, a specific goal in mind: the juncture of groin and thigh. Where his scent is the strongest, the smell of his arousal is damn near overwhelming.

"Oh, shit…"

I bite down, marking him again, and the vibrations from his trembling, the proof of his fucking surrender, moves through him and into me, feeding my need, my desire to claim and own. The pure primal _want_ to make Justin mine.

With one hand, I reach out, blindly feel around until I find the damn lube and, after sloppily adding the clear slick to my fingers, start massaging his hole.

"Jesus. Fuck."

Been there, said that. Nice to know I'm reducing him to that same fucking state.

Pushing a finger into him, I redouble my efforts to mark him, sucking and pulling harder, drawing more blood to the surface. It's going to hurt, going to be tender to the touch and twinge every time he moves tomorrow. And that's what I want: a constant reminder that, no matter what he finally decides, in this moment he is mine.

Justin goes completely lax, the last of whatever control he was fighting for seeping out, and, as he sinks deeper into the mattress, he releases a guttural moan, one that tells me so much more than anything he could he say.

I sit back, eyes darting between his face and his cock and the deep purple bruise standing out in stark relief against his skin.

Wiggling the finger I have buried in his ass, I arch a brow. "Is it enough?"

He opens his mouth, and another moan bubbles out.

"Justin."

"Yes," he stammers, gasping and twitching, hands curling tighter around the edge of the mattress. "Enough."

Thank fucking god.

I rip the condom open, smoothing it, with a thin layer of lube, over my cock. Then, with a hand pressing down on each of Justin's thighs, adding to the strain that I know has to be working his muscles, I push in, burying myself balls deep in one long stroke.

"Fuck." So good. Almost too damn good. "Look at me, Justin."

Justin opens his eyes, bright and glassy, blown with the strength of his arousal.

"Brian, please."

His words are slurring together. And I know he's flying, losing himself in a world of sensation. Time to pull him back, ground him in the here and now.

"Justin." My hands slip down, move from the backs of his thighs to the front, urging him to wrap his legs around me. "Gimme a color, Justin."

He blinks, eyes slowly bringing the world into focus.

"Uh, I'm good."

He's good, but totally fucking gone.

"Color, boy," I growl.

His eyes widen and he says, "Green."

"Good." And then, watching him closely, I let one hand drop away from his thigh, let it fall to hover over the mark decorating his groin. Using my thumb, I brush across the bruise.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Each pass pressing in closer, pushing in just a touch harder, until my thumb is massaging the spot continuously. Reminding Justin, claiming him, focusing him.

"Please, fuck. I need…" He licks his lips, runs his tongue over his lips, and then clamps down, catches his bottom lip with his teeth.

The look on his face, the absolute abandon could be addictive. He's dancing on the edge of shattering, of begging for something, anything. It's the same look—only _more_—that he had the first night. That mix of innocence and reverence and need…

"Come on, Justin." I push down hard on the bruise and slam deep into his ass. "Give it up, come all over yourself."

He throws his head back, the tendons in his neck show, pulled taut and straining, and, with a loud shout, he fucking comes and comes and goddamn comes.

"Christ," I hiss and lean over him, plowing into his ass fast and hard until I fill the condom, grunting when he tightens his ass around me, coaxes even more from me.

* * *

  
I wake up to the smell of coffee. Despite the enticing scent, I head to the shower first. A chicken shit way of avoiding possible rejection for a few minutes more.

But a shower can only be drawn out so long. Even on a Saturday morning.

Tugging on my jeans, I pad barefoot into the kitchen. And stop short.

Justin's sitting at the counter, naked save for the towel draped around his waist, alternately looking through an open book and writing on a legal pad. He drops a hand to his lap, fingers teasing over a specific spot. Over the spot, _my_ spot.

"Justin?"

He pushes the book to the side, and smiles. A very bright smile. Too bright if he's planning on walking out.

"Morning."

I quirk a brow, look pointedly at the papers decorating the counter, and wait, wishing I'd stayed quiet until I at least had my coffee in hand.

He pushes the legal pad towards me. I take it in one hand and, fixing my coffee with the other, scan over what he's written.

Specific words jump out. Trial period of… Slow introduction to bondage and corporal… Clear rules and expectations…

"So," I look back at him, coffee forgotten for the moment, "this sounds like we need to set aside a time to talk."

Justin's smile fades from bright to shy. He dips his head, looks towards the counter and then, blinking, looks up through his lashes, "Yeah."

And I know, the same way I know my own goddamn name, that I am so fucking screwed.

 

_…continued in…_  
**[That Which Yields Is Not Always Weak](http://archiveofourown.org/works/42694)**


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